Obsessions of Suicide
by Waiting.At.The.End
Summary: We all tried to ignore it, those of us who live on the fringes of society, but it became difficult when one of us gave in to the razor. Matt/Mello


_**Obsessions of Suicide**_

What happens when you die? We've all asked ourselves at some point in our lives—burying a dead loved one, lying in a hospital bed, watching cancer eating away at your flesh, holding a razor to your wrist and wondering if you have the guts to give it jerk. Just one little jerk. Despite it all, you live free of it, under the warmth and the sunlight of unspoiled innocence, while _we_ constantly look up at the dreary cloud and question when it should decide to blot out the light forever. Every day when we peered through the black bars of the towering gate that circled our orphanage, we saw you, and we envied you. Your ignorant smiles and careless laughter. We smiled too; we laughed, but never without the tinge of sadness, remorse, regret. We would run around the front lawn, kicking about a battered football, and we would smile, and we would laugh. But we'd turn our faces upwards, and we're met, not with the sun, but with that cloud, hanging over our heads, unmoving, unwavering.

We all tried to ignore it, those of us who live on the fringes of society, but it became difficult when one of us gave in to the razor. I was nine at the time, three years into this orphanage, and during those three years, I had clawed, punched, and wormed my way into second place. Her name was Clarissa; twelve years old, and ranking number seven. I didn't know what drove her too it, we had never been close, and only ever exchanged a "hello" when we passed each other in the hallways. Or rather, she did. But everyone was just as stunned. Her friends, sobbing, informed Roger that she had not shown any signs of planning her own death. If she had, they spluttered, they'd have informed somebody of her intentions. I knew why no one noticed a change. She was smart, I know to give people the credit they are due, she knew what would happen if she showed any "signs." So she kept quiet, allowed the depression to tear through her until there was nothing left. And then, she killed herself.

The world kept on spinning, the sun rose and set, and we continued on. But never was anything the same again. Her shadow haunted those hallways; in each echoing footstep we heard her blood dripping the floor. When you live with your ultimate goal in life to succeed the world's greatest detective, and trying to best one another by any means possible, you never quite get rid of the stress that envelopes you, and suffocates you. It just grows until you can't stand it any more. And even then, it grows until you decide you've had enough and decide to end it yourself. Not many words were spoken about Clarissa's death, but every time I looked into their eyes, I saw the question "who's next?" I knew they saw the same question in my eyes too. Our cloud grew larger.

The next was two years later, a boy by the name of Kevin. Him, I knew. He was my age, and ranked twenty-fifth. He was nothing remarkable in his looks, and he was no competition to my rank, but he excelled in areas of art. We played football together, and I have occasionally helped him study, so I suppose I should have noticed when he stopped painting. I should have noticed when he resumed painting and the pictures were dark and miserable. Maybe I could have helped him... Who am I kidding? Both of them were too far gone. We lost hope of any human contact when we agreed to come to Whammy's House. Kevin hung himself in his room. I was the one to find him, I don't remember what reason I had for visiting him that afternoon, but I opened the door, and saw his dead body, eyes staring down blankly, and twisted up slightly in a sort of leer. _Would you dare do this?_ I turned around and started towards Roger's office. I didn't bother to close the door, and I could hear somebody scream. Back in my room, I vomited for hours after. Matt stayed with me, rubbing my back as his only way of consolation. I could feel them shaking. Death does that to people. It draws them in and repulses them; it ignites fear and mystery in their hearts. It poisons them. The sweetest poison you'll ever taste.

I felt that poison on my lips when I left the orphanage and took faltering steps into the pouring rain; when Matt grabbed my arm, tears streaming down his face (or was that the rain?) and begged me not to go; when I cruelly shoved him into the pavement and told him to get the fuck out of my face; when I lay in an abandoned building of an unnamed street in Los Angeles; when I stabbed the guy trying to shove his dick in my mouth; when I made my way to the Mafia to be treated like a dog; when I fucked and shot and threatened and bribed my way to the top; when I drew the mask over my face and pushed the button before the disbelieving eyes of the Japanese Task Force; when I opened my eyes to see myself swathed in bandages and hurting like hell; when my past finally, finally caught up with me and I stared into Matt's blue eyes again for the first time in three years, and then, for a moment, time stood still, and I felt the urge to quit everything I was doing and just stay with him... But no, no, no, no, no, I still had a race to win, payback to deal, and sins to atone for. But for some reason, those things weren't important when Matt pulled me into a bruising kiss, and pulling back, flashed me that trademark grin and told me that I was a bitch for making him worry.

You see, some of us escaped the cloud, but to me, who cheated death time and again, it loomed closer than ever, and I knew that there would be a time I wouldn't be able to escape. But when I stared into the mirror and saw my own scarred face gazing back at me, I remember Clarissa and Kevin and Watari and L, and I turn around and Matt would be standing behind with that lazy half-smile of his, and I'd feel determined to keep running for just awhile longer.

Now—now I stand out in the winter air, Matt is beside me as we wait for the light to turn green. It does, and we walk across the intersection and it feels like we're walking towards the noose that will hang us both. You walk past us, chattering, giggling, and not one of you spares us a glance, and I wonder if we're dead already, just ghosts left to roam a world we no longer belong to. Matt seems to know what I'm thinking and he takes my hand, and we keep on walking, each step a dash of ink on our own death contracts. The poison is so strong when I zoom down the streets on my motorbike I dared not to lick my lips, for fear it will slither down my throat and kill me, too early. I watch you wander the streets, and realize not any one of you will miss me, and it makes me feel so damn insignificant. I was nothing compared to the colors, the noises, the smell, and neither are you. Face it, we'll all die someday and the world will keep on spinning. It makes you wonder what the hell we're worth.

I arrive at my destination and I see that Matt has done his job because there is smoke and screaming and confusion. I leave it behind five minutes later, my target clinging on to me and when I pull into an alley and cuff her to me, I have the urge to turn around. Let her go and save myself, because death is tired of being cheated and it's waiting for me at the end of the line. The poison grows stronger and the cloud is covering me like a blanket. It's suffocating.

I take my hostage to a truck, strip her of her clothing to get rid of tracking devices, lock her in the back, and take my seat at the wheel. I start the engine, and head towards the church. Matt is dead. I found out through the little television installed by the radio. Dead. I surprise myself by not feeling terribly sorry, because we both knew that this is the end. I didn't tell him, and he didn't tell me, but I knew, and he knew—the way he'd clawed at me so desperately; the way I needed to feel him, his lips on mind, his nails breaking my skin... And our last kiss before we parted ways. He tasted of the cigarettes he always held between his lips, and a sort of exotic spice. I'd plundered his mouth, grazing teeth, rubbing against his tongue—I wanted to die with his taste between my lips.

I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't gone through with this plan, if he'd tried to stop me. Would I still be here? gazing across the border of the living into the eyes of the dead? Tasting this sweet poison on my lips and feeling this cloud weighing on my shoulders? Would he be dead?

I apologize to him. I wonder if he hears me. He probably does. He always does.

As I near the church I ask myself if this is suicide. I ask myself if I drove Matt to it too, or did I kill him? I'm looking back, away from the broken down church. I see all the things that could've happened. Could've been, and I want to scream. Because... I really sincerely wish things would turn out differently. You might have decided not to draw the razor over your wrist, but when your own goal in life revolves around the death of another, not being able to set it down seems like our own sick obsession.


End file.
